Change in Management: A Jim Meade, Martian P.I. Novel: Jim Meade, Martian P.I.

By RJ Johnson

Murder, betrayal, the fate of humanity... it's all in a day's work for Jim Meade, Martian P.I.

In 2097 humanity is ruled by two major powers: The Consortium and Coalition. But Jim Meade is a Runabout - someone who doesn't care who's running the show so long as he can earn his keep peacefully in the deadly Zero-G fights that keep the Martian colonists entertained on a nightly basis.

After one of his fights goes horribly wrong, Meade finds himself deep in debt to one of the most dangerous warlords on Mars. When a beautiful Coalition officer asks to help clear her father's name, he seizes the opportunity to make some easy money.

However, Meade quickly learns he's become entangled within a dark conspiracy getting stranger at every turn and if he wants to survive the change in management, he'll need every ounce of wit, whiskey and guns he's got.

• Language: English
• Publisher: RJ Johnson
• Release date: May 14, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224836109

Book preview

Preface

If you enjoyed this book and have a moment, I’d like to request that you please leave a review on Amazon.com and Goodreads.com! Independent authors like me live and die by the amount of four- and five-star reviews we get, so help a struggling artist eat and pay rent by leaving a review if you enjoyed the book!

Thanks!

RJ

May 19th, 2013

Chapter 1

Bet on Yourself

Emeline Hunan pushed her way through the massive crowd of people clogging the doorway to the zero-G arena, the sounds of thousands of cheering men and women blaring around her.

Inside, the place stank of stale beer, body odor, and a combination of other, even less pleasant, smells. But that didn’t stop the miners—commonly known around New Plymouth as moles—from packing into the arena every night to watch the brutal zero-G fights.

Zero-G fighting had become one of the most popular sports on Mars after a local warlord figured out a way to modify the gravity generators installed around the colony.

Gravity within the boxing ring varied from zero-G all the way up to five times what someone would feel back on the Homeworld. Five concentric circles were laid out within the fight ring, with each circle containing a patch of either high or low gravity, depending on the round. Fighters would often use those rings as traps to pin down their opponents.

Once a fighter found himself within a five-G area, it was impossible to escape.

The zero-G leagues were not for the faint of heart. The fights were vicious, hard, and messy, with few rules constraining the combatants. Everyone was welcome to try their luck. The pools of blood, teeth, sweat, and tears on the canvas floor of the ring testified to the fact there was no shortage of men or women on Mars seeking to prove themselves. Those who weren’t in peak physical condition or didn’t possess excellent fighting skills often would not survive to see their next match. Still, there was no shortage of people willing to step up for a chance at a life-changing payday.

Emeline looked at the packed arena below, where two fighters warily circled each other during the final round of their fight. According to the match clock, the pair had been at it for the last fifteen minutes, and their faces demonstrated the results of the brutal punishment they’d dished out to each other over the last quarter-hour.

She watched as the fighter in blue trunks retreated from his opponent, weaving his way through the gravity circles, adopting a defensive posture. From her vantage point, she could tell it was already over for the man in red shorts, even if he didn’t see it. The man in blue was forcing his opponent around the pattern of flashing five-G circles.

Suddenly, the man in blue stepped back into a circle the moment it flashed from five-G to zero. He jumped impossibly high—nearly all the way to the top of the arena. Placing his feet on the top of the cage twenty feet above his opponent, he pushed, dive bombing the man in red.

Caught unaware, Red was shoved onto a five-G ring. His body bent in half, his back breaking as he crossed over the threshold of the flashing circle. The sound of snapping bones filled the arena as the crowd roared its approval for the blue-trunked fighter’s daring maneuvers.

And, just like that, the fight was over. Emeline knew the man couldn’t possibly recover. A horn sounded and the crowd roared once again, some in protest, others in jubilation. The bookies hanging around the rail began paying off the various wagers made on the match.

Who’d you have, sweetheart? The voice had a rough, thick accent, direct from the Homeworld. Emeline turned to look for the source and saw a squat, hairy man who had suddenly appeared next to her with his posse. They were slurping at their cups of beer and eyeing her up and down.

Emeline ignored them. Her armbar buzzed. She opened the screen, a holographic display popping up with a notification. A message appeared.

WHERE ARE YOU?

Emeline closed the armbar and moved toward the back of the arena. But before she was able to make her way down the aisle, someone grabbed her arm and held tight. The mole was still trying to chat her up, despite her obvious lack of interest.

That’s rude, don’cha think? the mole said, sniffing. He scratched at the acne on his face and giggled. Just tryin’ to get to know a lady.

Emeline turned and shook her head. "In what world do you imagine I’d ever want to talk to you?"

I got credits! the badly pockmarked man bragged. He opened his armbar and showed her the credit balance he held. The display did show an impressive balance for a miner on Mars, but he wasn’t heading for retirement on New Luna anytime soon.

I took my man in blue for the win at five-and-a-half-to-one, and the bloke paid off nicely. The miner elbowed Emeline and let his hand lightly pass over her ass. "I’m willing to pay even nicer for you."

Emeline flashed her prettiest smile at the disgusting man. How much you thinking?

The mole’s greedy eyes opened wide and took in every inch of her body. Emeline knew she was a beautiful woman, and she was more than a little curious to see how much she’d go for on the open market. But she still shivered a little at his appraisal.

Two hundred, the mole said, licking his lips.

Emeline was insulted. If she was going to sell her body, she figured she’d be worth as much as a high-class prostitute.

His face fell at her reaction. Three hundred?

She ran her fingernail down his scarred cheek. I think I may be a bit too expensive for you.

Four? the mole asked hesitantly. He tossed back the rest of his beer and belched. Or you could just come back to my place for a good time, and I keep my money. He squeezed her arm. Hard.

Emeline smiled. Then, she grabbed the mole’s crotch and squeezed the man’s grapes for all they were worth (which in her mind wasn’t a whole lot). She pushed and yanked, flipping the man end over end, spilling him onto the sticky arena floor. His friends exploded in laughter as the miner howled in pain.

You bitch! he cried out. You—

Careful there, she said, turning to walk away. I don’t think your little baby bells can afford to make another insult.

The mole’s friends were still laughing as they reached down to help their fallen comrade to his feet.

Emeline left the cackling miners behind as she pushed her way through the crowd and approached a private door at the back of the arena. A Coalition MP looked down at her through his visor and she showed him her armbar. He scanned it, saw she was on the access list, and stepped aside to let her through.

The locker room was much quieter than the noise-filled arena. She moved through a darkened hallway where most of the lights were either flickering or burned out. She paused at the doorway to one of the dressing rooms and found the man she was looking for.

Jim Meade was leaning against a medical-bay bed, wrapping his right hand with sports tape. He flexed his fingers and made sure the hand was wrapped tightly enough to keep his joints from moving around too much.

His boxing shorts were yellow with a black stripe down either side; to Emeline it was strange to see him without his black cowboy hat and dark, red-brown duster, but she didn’t mind the view of his six-pack and those biceps.

Satisfied with the wrap job on his right hand, he grabbed the roll of tape sitting on the table and began to wrap his left hand. He looked up and saw Emeline in the doorway.

Did you get it? he asked her without preamble.

I got it, she said, entering the room. I still think it’s the most damn fool idea you ever had.

Like I’m short on any of those? Meade asked, his eyes crinkling in a smile.

She snorted. Still number one, so far as I’m concerned. While breaking into a warlord’s private stash is stupid—

Hey, you enjoyed drinking O’Donnell’s whiskey as much as I did, he reminded her with a wry grin.

She ignored him and jumped up to sit on the counter across from him. You don’t think this is a bad idea?

Em, if I win here tonight using those borrowed credits, I’ll finally have the kind of scratch I need to retire on New Luna—and with enough left over to buy out your debt to the Coalition. But none of that will happen if you didn’t get the money.

"I got it, Emeline repeated crossly as she opened her armbar and showed him the balance in the account. What if you don’t win?"

He chuckled. Thanks for the vote of confidence.

Meade looked back at his left hand to continue taping it.

Emeline jumped down and got in his face. Hey, seriously. What if you don’t win?

Not a problem I’m particularly concerned about at the moment.

"You might need to start worrying about that in the next twenty minutes. I just watched one of your fellow fighters get his spine snapped in half. It’d be smart if you had yourself a few alternative ideas for retirement. Like a real job maybe."

He ignored the dig and appeared to decide his left hand needed to be re-taped. He pulled at the wrapping on the hand, but Emeline stopped him.

Here, let me get that. She took his hand and rewrapped it.

What’re the odds on me? he asked as she expertly twisted the wrap around his hand.

I didn’t check.

Em—

"I didn’t check!"

#

Jim blanched. If Emeline wouldn’t even tell him the odds, that meant they had to be worse than he imagined. The people who calculated them had a mountain of computer power and statistics behind them that made their predictions incredibly reliable. He knew she was trying to protect his feelings. Like he had any to hurt. He finally caught her eye and lifted an eyebrow.

She sighed. You’re sitting at nearly fifty to one.

He whistled. That would mean a lot more money than he originally thought—if he won the match. But he was surprised (and a bit insulted) that the odds were as bad as they were. He might not be one of the biggest names in the fights, but he’d been able to hold his own while making his way up the ranks to get this match.

Okay so maybe he had a feeling or two to hurt after all.

His fighting strategy was a good one. In previous fights, more experienced fighters were unable to adapt to his style before finding themselves on their backs with the ref finishing the count.

But tonight’s bout was different. He was fighting someone who was well-known in the leagues for being one of the most brutal and skilled fighters on the red planet.

Kevin Chau was only fighting Meade as an exhibition. Meade was a piece of meat for the soon-to-be-champ, a way for him to get some exercise before the championship bout later in the week.

Chau had built a reputation for himself over the last year and a half with stories of his matches ending in bloodshed or death. Meade had always known tonight’s fight with the man wouldn’t be easy, but he couldn’t resist fifty-to-one odds and the chance to change his life.

That’s not so bad, he said, mulling it over.

"I’m pretty sure fifty-to-one odds only count if you survive the match," Emeline said.

Trying to cheer me up won’t make me reconsider, Em. I’m telling you. I studied his vids. I know the man’s weakness.

He moved around her toward the body bag and shadowboxed for a few moments, practicing his form with his newly wrapped hands.

No one in the arena will see it coming, I promise. Especially Chau.

Pretty confident for a dead man walking, another voice said.

Meade and Emeline spun around to see a tall man in a pinstriped suit that was worth more than they made in a year, his hair slicked back. A pencil-thin beard followed the outline of his jaw and was neatly trimmed to a point under his chin.

Palmetto, Meade said. I didn’t know you were a fight fan.

More than a fan, Mr. Meade, Michael Palmetto drawled as he entered the dressing room. I have quite a nice stake in your opponent.

Meade chuckled. Well, everyone makes bad investments on occasion.

Palmetto locked his eyes on him. I’d like to speak with you alone.

Emeline glanced at him. He waved her off.

It’s all right. He leveled his gaze at Palmetto. Em was just leaving to place a bet.

He turned to her and nodded, letting her know that it would be fine. A small crease between her eyes expressed her concern, but she left the room without further protest. She clearly didn’t like leaving Meade alone with the most dangerous warlord of E-Block. But really, what could Palmetto do to him in a public place like this?

Palmetto turned and closed the door. He grabbed a metal folding chair and dragged it across the cold tile, the sound grating on Meade’s nerves.

So, Mr. Meade—

Palmetto, if you got something you wanna say, get to it. They’re expecting me out there.

They will wait. Palmetto unfolded the chair and sat down in front of Meade, crossing his legs and picking a piece of lint off his trousers. I have a proposition for you.

I’m not interested.

You don’t even know what I have to say. Palmetto sounded amused.

Maybe, he said, inspecting the wrap job Emeline had done on his left hand. She did good work. But I already know how this goes. You offer me money to do something I’m not interested in doing, and I say no. You’ll up your offer, and I’ll refuse again. You’ll threaten me, I’ll laugh. You’ll offer me more money than I’ve ever seen in my life . . . and I’ll still say no.

He approached the warlord, placing his face mere inches away from the man who terrified so many others. So, let’s save us some time. I will never work for you or your blood money.

Palmetto chuckled at Meade’s outburst. "Mr. Meade, be reasonable. You’re a runabout. You can’t make any money in the Coalition mines without a SecureCard installed on your armbar, and it’s not like you have any opportunities with the Consortium forthcoming. The best you can hope for is some lucky million-to-one hit at the casino or to be forever used as fodder for fighters who long ago passed you in skill and opportunity. You have no hope of making a living on this planet if you don’t play ball with someone, whether it be with the Coalition, the Consortium, or me."

He plucked another imaginary piece of fluff off his suit, and Meade rolled his eyes.

Scoff all you like, Palmetto said, staring at him with his piercing blue eyes. But believe me, there will come a time when you will need someone to watch your back.

Meade shook his head and moved to the doorway. Go to hell, Palmetto. I’m not your errand boy.

Palmetto rose and put his hand on Meade’s bare chest, stopping him from leaving the dressing room.

"You will come and work for me eventually, Meade. One way or the other, I will have you on a leash."

Not today. Meade pushed past the warlord in charge of his local block and moved down the hallway toward the arena.

The roar of the crowd grew louder as he walked down the hallway.

A man wearing a headset stopped him. You ready?

About as much as anyone can be I s’pose, Meade replied, his stomach doing flip-flops. The nervous energy he had so far managed to ignore was now bubbling up, a nauseating effervescence of excitement and drop-dead fear.

Too late to back out now.

Chapter 2

Fight Night

The heavy sound of rock music filled the arena. The announcer’s voice echoed out across the crowd, informing them about the final bout of the night. While Meade’s chances didn’t look good to the odds makers, he had managed to rack up an impressive streak of recent wins over the last few months.

The crowd roared at the announcement of Meade’s name—some in approval, but mostly what Meade heard was booing. He stepped through the doors and walked through the gauntlet that led to the ring.

The crowd, expressing their displeasure with the no-name on the fight card, showered him with beer cups, both empty and not. Some of those cups were filled with liquids other than beer, though Meade did his best to avoid thinking what those liquids might be.

The walk to the ring didn’t take him long. An official stood next to the cage, holding the door open for Meade. He raised his fists in victory, hoping to elicit something of a positive reaction from the crowd.

Tonight’s bout is scheduled for five rounds, with the winner facing the Martian Heavyweight Champion, Colin Greene, for the ZFC Championship!

The crowd roared as bookmakers on the sidelines took last-minute bets. He saw Emeline push her way through the crowd and speak with one of the bookies near the ring. The man looked impatient as Emeline presumably transferred the credits Meade had borrowed from the loan shark. She ducked under the rail, showing her armbar credentials to the officials standing there, and approached the ring, looking up at Meade giving him the thumbs up.

He began to jump up and down, trying to expend the nervous energy he was feeling. No matter what happened next, it was too late to go back now.

In the yellow trunks, standing at six feet, two inches, one hundred and ninety-five pounds . . . the Martian Menace . . . James MEEEEEADE!

The jeering rose in volume again, and he grinned.

Sounds like Chau’s got his fan section in attendance.

The announcer leaned in close to Meade, holding the mic away from his mouth. They’re out for blood tonight. I hope you’re ready to put on a show.

Meade didn’t both acknowledging the audience’s reaction. He had enough on his mind without worrying about putting on a good enough show that the moles didn’t riot by the end of the night. There was nothing worse than a bunch of drunken Martian miners who were bored.

The mood changed in the arena and the lights above Meade’s head began to flicker. Three spotlights tracked over to Chau’s entrance ramp as fog rolled out of the doorway. A low drumming began to echo through the arena as the crowd chanted Chau’s name. The music became more intense, the chanting louder and louder. The announcer stepped away from Meade and jutted out his chin.

In the blue corner . . . standing at six feet, eight inches tall . . . weighing in at two hundred and seventy-two pounds . . . from parts unknown . . . Keeeeeeeeeeeeeeeevin CHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAU!!!

The doorway exploded as pyrotechnics ushered Kevin Chau out into the arena. He stood with a grim expression on his face as the lights highlighted the massive man’s impressive physique. Swirling tattoos covered his exposed skin, each one incredibly intricate in its design. As he slowly made his way down to the ring, the cape he wore billowed behind him.

Meade never got scared, exactly. He always chalked up whatever he was feeling to an upset stomach. In fact, it was one of the things that made up his moral code.

Rule number fourteen: Don’t get scared. Fear causes mistakes.

However, the second Chau stepped into the ring, Meade had to admit there was a tiny stab of fear twinging in his guts. He swallowed it down and continued to stare at Chau as hard as he knew how. Chau’s eyes didn’t leave Meade as his entourage began taking the fighter’s ornaments off.

The two fighters met in the center of the ring, where a large red number ONE was emblazoned on the green canvas. The middle circle that they stood within was one of five circles scattered throughout the fighter’s cage. Each one, depending on the round, would alternate between zero gravity and a multiple of Earth-normal gravity.

After each round, the amount of gravity each circle generated increased by one G. The second round’s circles alternated between projecting twice the normal amount of gravity and zero gravity. The third round would have three times the amount within the circles, and so on. By the fifth round, if a fighter found himself trapped within a five-G circle, the fight was generally over.

The Coalition national anthem began blasting out of the loudspeakers overhead. Meade glanced away from his opponent for the first time since he entered the ring and looked up at the VIP skybox.

Above him, a large procession was filing into the seats reserved for the elite on Mars. Two of the spotlights that had been fixed on Meade and Chau quickly tracked up to the VIP box where he could see Coalition Ambassador Andromeda Corcoran sitting down, along with her chief of security, William Hugh. She paused and waved to the people she represented.

The crowd dutifully cheered as the last bars of the national anthem trickled out of the stadium’s speakers.

Meade was surprised to see the ambassador in attendance. He knew she was a fan of the zero-G league but never imagined that she’d deign to attend one of his matches.

He looked back at Chau, who still hadn’t taken his eyes off him, and realized Corcoran wasn’t there for Meade. She was there to watch Chau take him apart in the brutal fashion for which he had become so well-known.

The referee approached Meade and Chau, checking their gloves for any foreign objects that might rub off into an opponent’s eyes or otherwise injure him. Meade didn’t figure Chau for a cheater. If there was one thing the warlords took seriously, it was the zero-G fights. There weren’t many stupid enough to cheat—there was far too much money involved, and if one warlord decided to cheat, it would send the sport into a debilitating spiral.

Keep it clean, gents. I see enough blood and I don’t give a good goddamn what you say, I’ll stop this fight. You get it? The ref’s gruff tone left no doubt that he was a man of his word.

Roger that, Cochise, Meade said lightly and offered his gloves to his opponent.

Kevin Chau stared at him wordlessly, his shaven, black head gleaming with sweat. Chau was there for blood, but Meade intended to help the man get used to disappointment.

Meade winked at his opponent. Chau slammed his gloves together as hard as he could.

Back to your corners, and when the bell sounds, you’re on, gents, the ref said.

Meade walked back to his corner, refusing to take his eyes off his opponent, who didn’t look away from Meade either.

Emeline appeared at his corner and hissed at him.

Are you sure about this? Emeline asked once he had crouched down to her eye level.

Little late for me to get cold feet. Besides, I’m betting if I don’t fight in here, the crowd out there will tear me to pieces. He motioned to the attendees, who were whipped up into a frenzy, looking for a good fight and as much blood as the fighters were willing to spill.

He pointed up to the VIP box. I even rated a visit from all those high-level muckety-mucks, and they didn’t come all the way down here to watch me run away.

Emeline laughed. She’s got other things to worry about.

Meade knew Em was referring to the upcoming meeting of the Coalition Parliament on Mars. The annual gathering of representatives from each block allowed her constituents to air their grievances and vote on bills that would appropriate money to residents for structural improvements.

The Coalition Representative House had long ago been taken over by the warlords, with each of them pushing their own pet projects. Nothing ever changed—the rich got richer off of the poor. It was one of the biggest reasons Meade remained a runabout and eschewed politics altogether.

Better her than me, he said, shrugging. The bell rang and he put in his mouthguard. Time to go to work. Keep my seat warm.

He gave a mock salute to Emeline and moved cautiously into the middle of the ring to meet his opponent.

Chapter 3

You Should See the Other Guy

In the hours of video Meade had watched of Chau’s fights, his opponent knocked out ninety percent of the fighters facing him within the first two rounds. Only one man made it past the fourth round but even he had ended up in traction for six months after the bout.

Not only was Chau a more experienced fighter than Meade, but he was also a master at timing the switch between zero-G and enhanced gravity. One moment he’d be flying a dozen feet over the head of a fighter, and the next he’d be behind his opponent, dealing a devastating roundhouse kick.

Meade knew there was no way he could compete in a toe-to-toe, knockdown, drag-out fight with the man. Nor was he as agile as Chau was while navigating the gravity circles. The secret to beating Chau was waiting for him to get tired.

Chau was in fantastic shape. He’d obviously spent a huge amount of time sculpting his body into the two-hundred-seventy-two-pound powerhouse he’d become, but all that effort came with a weakness. After four rounds of carrying all that muscle around, Chau usually began making mistakes. Meade guessed that the longer it took for Chau to put someone down, the more impatient he became.

Meade figured all he had to do was survive the first few rounds. Since he was no slouch in the ring himself, he was looking forward to seeing how their fight would play out.

Chau approached him and threw the first punch. Meade flew back. The speed and power of that punch nearly took his jaw off. He regained his balance and delivered a shot to Chau’s ribcage.

His hand exploded in pain. He retreated away from Chau, shaking his hand in surprise. It ached as if he had punched a solid slab of concrete instead of the soft meat of Chau’s side.

Unfortunately, while he analyzed his best options, Chau reached back and threw a haymaker that connected solidly with Meade’s right temple.

It felt like Chau had brought the hammer of God down on Meade’s head. Meade fell to the ground, his bell thoroughly rung. Dazed, he looked up through the stars in time to see Chau bringing his foot down on his head as he tried to finish the job.

Meade rolled out of the way and retreated to his corner. Chau prowled after him. He